


Bricks To Break My Fall (花より男子)

by stylinourry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Best Friends, Boys Over Flowers, F4 - Freeform, Flower Four, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hana Yori Dango, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, look at this, omg, smut in later chapters, what have I done?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinourry/pseuds/stylinourry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was the last thing Louis asked for as a piss-poor undergraduate student barely scraping by. The words <i>luxury</i> and <i>riches</i> were bad omens for him. In the process he gets himself entangled in a gigantic web that alters his life forever all because of a single act of generous bravery -- no, two -- that he had committed.</p><p>Louis hated his university <i>so</i> damn much. And he hated four certain young men more than he ever thought was possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bricks To Break My Fall (花より男子)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think anybody wrote something like this yet ahh.
> 
> Self-explanatory tags.
> 
>  
> 
> copyright (c) _Boys Over Flowers [Hana Yori Dango]_ by Yoko Kamio

Louis blamed his mum for this _thing_ that everyone around him rather encouraged with weird enthusiastic zeal.

The first of the Tomlinson children to attend Britain's most esteemed, acclaimed, sacred university. The first ever Tomlinson to set foot on the revered grounds of privilege. Why miss the biggest opportunity to lift the Tomlinson family name up high?

Louis' suspicions of their total _insanity_ was confirmed. Although he was also accepted to Doncaster College (and Yale and Cambridge and NYU), his firm plans were to attend DC either way because, seeing as it was super obvious he was stuck in the deepest financial ruts - and his family's financial background stuck out like a huge sore thumb - he wouldn't be able to go to any of those four, especially that praised _Harford University of the United Kingdom_ (Louis snorted tea out of his nose when he realized Harford was the hybrid name for _Harvard_ and _Oxford_ : two of the world's prestigious gems. Why the hell did he not hear about this school? When the hell did they pop into existence?) 

Louis had an inexplicable shock (he was exaggerating 'inexplicable' a bit) as a letter from Harford - something else other than his acceptance email - was thrown in his face by his little sister Fizzy, her button nose scrunching up curiously at it. The letter, for God's sake, was lined with gold ribbon trim and framed by elegant cursive script; Louis almost threw up right then and there.

His mum excitedly coaxed him to read it on their wooden dinner table ("It's a tradition to open acceptance letters on this surface!"), and Louis opened the beautiful letter in a disgraceful manner the Queen herself would have banished him for, his fingers crinkling the expensive lightweight stationary and not even caring if he spilled some Yorkhouse tea on the patterned paper ("Louis! Handle it carefully!" his mother snapped; he rolled his cerulean eyes).

Louis absolutely refused to believe this was now his life, words floating in incomprehensible clumps while he read.

_Dear Mr. Louis William Tomlinson,_

_Congratulations on your prosperous acceptance to Harford University of the UK. Based on a second timely review of your enclosed personal budget and excellent academic records, we are pleased to inform you that you have been offered the **Chancellor's Royal Entrance Scholarship** , amounting in a total value of £82,000 over a designated period of a program of your choosing. This scholarship means to assist all potential Harford students with their study costs, ensuring that bright minds such as yours experience the correct nurturing needed to truly be successful._

_Harford University prides itself on its financial need programs, unique creative expression, and rigorous top academia of the highest quality; occupying the number one spot for the most competitive acceptance rate (the average 1.5 percentile of more than 100,000 applicants per semester) on the European continent, you have proven yourself worthy to be part of what is regarded as the largest community of elite scholars and noble persons. Harford's ambitious student body will benefit greatly from your attendance._

_Once again, congratulations and we hope to see you in the following weeks before the start of term._

_Sincerely,_

Madame A. S. Cox

_**Chancellor of the Harford University of the United Kingdom** _

" _82,000 POUNDS_ , MUM?! ARE THEY SERIOUS?"

Louis' vocal chords strained, jaws agape in utter disbelief. It had engulfed his heart, his lungs, immobilizing him like a bundle of circuits turned up to maximum voltage. He didn't quite feel like wiping away stray tears that may or may not have materialized within his eyes, and the letter had simply reinforced leeway for his mother to scream out the spectacular news among the Tomlinson masses.

His sisters - his poor family - were the driving forces that Louis needed if he was to endure at Harford. They were his inspiration, forging an unspoken promise between his steel efforts and their economic state.

And today, Louis figured that, with solid common sense (he was known to be an smart prude), he would become the unforgiven idiot if he was to skip out on this damn scholarship, reeking of prestige.

He finally had the money he'd been dreaming of for _years_ in his grasp. This was his chance. He can go to college. Attend Britain's premier numero uno (the very thought continued to pierce Louis' body like vague bursts of hand grenades). Although £82,000 over four years was still slightly rough around the edges, it would be a fucking start.

\--

**Two weeks later**

What was going _on_?

The first time Louis crossed the threshold of what seemed to be one of the most opulent marble buildings on campus (Louis didn't pretend he was the ill-fated protagonist of some unfortunately degenerate British soap), he convinced himself that he could get used to this. He could _definitely_ get used to the tangible affluence inside the walls.

Louis' sharp blue eyes observed the _Lincoln Undergraduate Union_ before him, and he couldn't believe he was to live in residence here. Harford University encompassed land in Winchester, spanning miles, and was built within one of the most expensive and most desirable cities in Britain (of course) but this...this was unprecedented.

The lobby simply bled of luxury, flanked by marble-cast pillars, winding iron staircases (how many levels _were_ there?), mahogany hardwood floors and a high looming ceiling embellished with cylindrical lights, two Swarovski chandeliers, and silver decorative motifs that covered miles of cream wallpaper to both Louis' left and right. Just aways to his behind where he stood, an entire row of chocolate elevator doors occupied the back walls, floor buttons encased in crystal glass. 

Holy god.

Louis concluded, distastefully, that this was not an undergraduate building. It was a five star hotel on its own! Eugh. He would be living among the rich, the privileged, the noble - apex classes that were so disconnected from the concept of hard unadulterated work since their birth in the womb. Up until this significant point of their lives they had more than likely pranced around with golden spoons inside their mouths, their problems dissipating into thin air at the wave of their parents' gold credit cards.

Money was their foundation. Their strength. It was all they knew.

Louis' lips curled into a sour grimace, his bags suddenly heavy underneath his sweating, blistered palms, and a quiet sort of sad dread crept into his stomach, weighing him down; he was beginning to feel more foreign than ever. A single barren stone, lost in a desert of countless gems.

Yet again, his mother always told him his favourite bedtime story as a child. An ugly stone, small and helpless and insignificant, was abused by all the jewels inside the ground because of its appearance, its dull background, its gross colour. One day the mining drill struck the poor stone, and every jewel rejoiced, expecting it to have been ground into pieces. To their bewilderment, the stone was still whole, its surface scratched, poked, shilled off, but not destroyed. It was intact. And the jewels swore they saw something - something that sparkled, beyond its damaged exterior.

The more adversity the stone ran into, the more its true self shown. In the end, the stone shed its outer layers and became a jewel, its perseverance, courage and good earthly nature the things that kept it alive.

Louis wasn't called 'the tough stone' for some foolish reason. He remembered admiring the story of the stone so much that he told his mother, proud, "I'm going to be like the brave stone!" Since then, Louis had courage. He could withstand anything.

This was just another one of those adversities.

Determination pushing away the negative doubts that clouded his mind moments ago Louis marched up, subtly, to the golden front desk, gripping his bags tight. He ignored the sting of the straps that dug into his skin.

The weathered boy manning the desk was startled by his instant entrance, looking cautiously at him, bespectacled eyes sizing up his ragged and unimpressive appearance. Gag him - Louis was in a rush, and he _really_ couldn't care less about tossing on a pressed D &G blazer or a crisp Ralph Lauren polo shirt. Besides, he can never afford such grand clothing. As upset as Louis was with the condescending look (the haughty judgement of the rich should go to Hell) he didn't say a word. _Tough stone, Louis._

"Your name, sir?" It was difficult for Louis to dismiss his tone of snobby disbelief (his fist ached to punch the boy square in the face, matter of fact - and Louis knew there was going to be a constant problem if every lavish person he encounters acted the same outrageous way), but he plastered a sickeningly sweet smile on his face, teeth clenched. After all, Louis was one of the best theatre actors, _au elite naturel_ , in high school; besides being one of the most popular students, an outgoing nature and explosive confidence were his crowning glory. However, he knew when it was necessary to pretend and when it was not.

"Louis Tomlinson. First year, Bachelor of Arts. Drama Science major," he said. He kept his voice even, uttering a silent prayer to God in thanks.

The deskboy checked a sheet of paper, his ink eyebrows scrunching in recognition. "Oh! Yes. Mr. Tomlinson, scholarship student," he gushed, but Louis still heard the ever-present note of astonishment coating his exclamation, as in: _how the hell did an unclassiful creature like him earn rights to Harford?_ How dare he look down on Louis. This is how they treated others of a lower social class; Louis expects them to fail horribly in moral charisma if they wanted to enter politics.

"Your room key and personal room service number, sir. This room service number can be used by you on your cellphone, room phone, anytime and anywhere. Harford's first-class staff allows you to order whatever you want and report any complaints you may have. Staff are prompt, satisfying your needs."

He gingerly pushes the room service card into Louis' outstretched hand, as if he held transmittable germs. Despite his amazement (bloody personal room service) over what the deskboy had just explained to him, Louis bites his lip to keep from snapping at his indirect rudeness.

"Don't lose your room service number, sir. It costs £500 to replace it."

Now that price does it, throws Louis the real deal in the world of the affluent, and his mouth drops open, daring the deskboy to admit he was lying, that it's actually £10 apiece. Of course he doesn't.

" _500 pounds?_ "

Louis thinks he can feel bile rising in the back of his throat, and the hand holding his room service card starts sweating profusely. The nape of his neck is collecting moisture too soon, Louis notices.

_Tough stone. Tough stone._

"Yes, sir. And here is your room key: suite 721, single occupancy, seventh floor. This also serves as the key to your laundry and storage room, located across your dormitory. It costs £981 to replace your key."

_Oh my god_. Might as well round it up to one damn grand.

And the bastard deskboy must be laughing inwardly at Louis' shock given the way his eyes glinted, mocking, behind his Gucci glasses. Louis makes sure he gets the benefit of a doubt when he forces his shoulders to shrug indifferently, Louis' expression neutral, in agreement.

The key is handed to him, and Louis is glad, heartwrenchingly glad, that he's done here. "Alright. Thanks. And you haven't realized this, but your head is swelling."

Louis couldn't help it - he's not in the least bit sorry. Swallowing a laugh at the deskboy's fright, his hands grasping both sides of his slicked back hair, he sassily adds, on impulse, "It's swelling with worms."

Louis' back was turned to the deskboy now. Squeaks of self-conscious protest resonated inside the lobby as he presses a finger to the elevator's glowing number seven, and Louis is grateful that he's the only student here - so far.

Louis feels more sadistic than guilty, thinking his comments were well-said. The deskboy was a bullheaded prick who thought he could get away with an idiotic attitude towards a poor undergraduate he barely knew, judging his looks. Not in the tough stone's book. He deserved a slap. Louis, sadly, couldn't tell how old the boy was. Maybe 20. Or 21.

Despite the deskboy's olive skin and snow eyes (Louis wasn't dumb enough to misappreciate beauty when he saw it), his attractiveness disappeared as soon as his garbage personality manifested itself. What a shame.

Louis hoped he wasn't on duty tomorrow morning. He didn't think he could handle handsome evil any longer.

\--

Apparently, Louis was assigned to the university's jinxed room, feared by many. He was told of this by a wavy-haired Manchester girl whom he accidentally bumped into while heading to storage, his arms full of extra school supplies. She was tall, friendly enough at face value, and quite beautiful, her hazelnut eyes shining at Louis when she apologized.

Louis felt flattered. And blessed. She hasn't yet caught on to the fact that he was a poor Doncaster bimbo on scholarship attendance. Or maybe she already did. Either way, she brought no attention to it, instead amusing Louis with her sophisticated chattiness, optimistic smile, and slender manicured hands that gesticulate everywhere as she talks. She was the first wealthy student he had met who was _not_ a prick. Thank goodness for it.

She was rather grounded (thank goodness, indeed), spontaneous and critical - reminded him greatly of himself - and Louis had an inkling that they might become friends. His mother would be ecstatic. Heck, his mum would assume he had found his twin. They looked nearly alike, characteristically. Siblings, even. The eyes distinguished their identities. 

"Your room is 721? I heard it's haunted," she told him, her low voice smart but cunning, curious but prying, manly but feminine. Louis has honestly never met a girl like the one standing before him, red Coach bag (which caught Louis' eye before they crossed paths) casually astride her left arm.

Louis quirked an eyebrow at her, inquiring. "Haunted? Unless you mean it's haunted by a lot of unappealing decor then I don't mind. I have to say though, the colour scheme's-"

" _No_ , it's haunted! Like, actually. Haunted as in pre-possessed, supernaturally possessed, superstitiously possessed-"

Louis snorted at her synonyms, rolling his eyes. He could tell how eager she was to lend him the tale, what with that glimmering gaze and chic tilt of her permed, brown-haired head. Was this worth it? Louis had time to spare, he recalled: there were eighteen hours left before crunch time - the first day of classes. He better entertain his newfound acquaintance.

Tomlinson put down his box and sighed. "Fine. What's the story?"

She squealed, enthused, and clapped her bejeweled hands (is that a _Peugeot_ watch?), full peach lips smirking. Louis chuckled, still wary to hear this story. What if she managed to spook him? He's an undergraduate, for fuck's sake. He has younger sisters who always attempted, and failed, to shake Louis' steel nerves. Risks were to be taken, and he'll eventually find out if looks could really be deceiving. 

"Ah, yay! Are you sure you want to hear it?"

Louis splutters, thinks she's been planning something the entire time, but she senses his interior conflicts and giggles. Her giggle resembled wind chimes, to his unsurprise. "I'm kidding! It's not awful - although it involved a death."

His skin jolts. Louis wishes he had heard wrong.

She finished the sentence so innocently, so freely, that they could have been conversing about designer shoes instead of a _haunting_.

The last word does frazzle Louis, and he tosses her a pointed, distressed, upset glance. " _Are you bloody kidding?_ " His raspy voice is treacherous. Afraid. He sure as damn won't reside in a room that a troubled Harford student possibly died in, which was a definite tragedy that he couldn't stomach in the slightest.

"I promise I'm serious," she whispers, her lively tone demoted to an ominous, quiet mutter, and Louis is then acutely aware of endless footsteps - new rich undergrads alike - outside his storage room (which looked like the monolith, grander cousin of Louis' tiny bathroom back home. A thousand-pound _Kenmore Majesty Edition_ laundry washer and dryer were stacked together in one corner, the floor was pure white carpet, and ornate beige drapes covered gaping open windows; Louis expected such, of course).

He's hesitant to listen, can't predict what she's going to say, and his gut is making agitated flips, but he has to. Louis can take this.

He prods her to sit on a cushion stool (why there was a stately stool in his storage room he didn't question) and Louis leans against the washing machine, crossing his arms. She sits down so gracefully, soundlessly, and Louis was reminded that she was a _rich_ girl, in case he began to kid himself.

"Okay...I heard through the grapevine that someone was decreasing the stock price of Britain's technologic devices, which affected our economy badly, right? Everyone at Harford knows what story is what. They circulate like wildfire." Louis remembers that incident two years ago. His mother almost got the boot because of an unavoidable, large-scale layoff. The Tomlinsons begged for their lives and were saved due to his stepfather. His hospitality and numerous connections generated a revival of his mum's simple - yet most popular in the area - Doncaster restaurant _Tommo's Tea & Pizzas & Eats_ (he part-time waited tables); nearly 75% of the profit from their café fueled Louis' education. 

"My dad owns more than half of Apple's shares-," Louis holds in the urge to sob,"-so you're repeatedly bound to get wind of whatever issues they experience. Well, this one was, like, devastating. My dad's friend weeded out the perpetrator. He was the heir to Apple's sister company _Beats_ , and he attended Harford. You could say he got into a shitload of trouble."

Louis exhales, lips pursed. "That - wasn't as scary a story as I thought."

But she forces him to think otherwise, her expression still and solemn. Louis thinks it doesn't suit her lovely face. "I didn't even get to the worst part."

Louis waits. A sense of uneasiness crept into his mind, easily obscuring the anticipation he felt moments ago.

"His name was Evan James. He was threatened to hack into Apple's systems and made the nationwide stock decrease happen. He was supposed to enter his third undergraduate program this year, but he - he committed suicide. In your room. He...slit his wrists in the bathtub. Bled to death, I reckon." 

Her dainty mouth quivers: the only cue that betrays her calm demeanor, and Louis' insides clench violently.

The bathtub of his suite, spilt on with crimson, a pale, lifeless body soaked in blood, his tormented soul long gone. Louis realizes he may vomit. And this occurred a year ago. The memories are still fresh wounds in the pretty girl's head.

" _Christ_ , I - I'm sorry."

To Louis, her faint, sad expression suggests that they might have been lovers, or the closest of friends. And God forbid he imagines his own heartbreak. He would be utterly inconsolable.

"I never asked for your name, love. I'm Louis. Louis Tomlinson, Arts major." He nods at her, tone scratchy, throat squeezing down the beginnings of chyme that would pounce the moment his anxiety spiked, and she tilts her head forward in acknowledgement, a ringed finger slipping brown ombré hair behind her pearl-studded ears; a sombre gaze hides in those chocolate eyes.

"Eleanor," she answered, and an emotion Louis couldn't exactly identify tinged her soft voice.

"Eleanor Calder. Business major. You can call me El. Eleanor sounds like my great-grandmother. Anyhoo, bottom line: Evan died in your room because he was driven to that point. He was _bullied_ into the stock decrease. Money was used to so obviously cover up the real cause of his death, coroners declaring a suicide via 'clinical depression'." 

She fixates on Louis, mouth creased into a straight purse, and pity fills his chest. She was too fair for this.

"He didn't have depression. There's people responsible for it," Eleanor insisted, running her shaky hands over uncalloused knees.

Louis freezes then, time and space vanishing into thin, fragranced air, and his molars grind together. Fury replaced his sadness, and the very last thing Louis had expected was another bullying lot of vile cruelty at this potent school. There was no other plausible explanation for Evan's cracked goodwill.

In fact, what the fuck _is_ Harford University? It was a melting pot of degradation, more like.

Injustice.

Louis knew he was being cynical with his ghastly assumptions, but he didn't dare ask Eleanor to clarify.

Trying to silence the unbecoming anger that gradually bubbled inside him, he shook his head: a rough, frustrated movement.

"Who was the bully?" It was a ridiculous struggle to keep his voice unruffled.

Eleanor stood up, her charming face defiant and (was that poorly concealed _desire_ he was seeing?) passionate, and Louis was gobsmacked at her rapid turnaround. She cocked one skirted hip to the side, hands clenched into delicate fists, and spoke one word - if it even is a word. It was entirely unfamiliar, alongside sounding unrecognizable.

"1D."

\--

Classes commenced before Louis realized they had begun. Despite his sleep mishaps due to Eleanor's inconceivable tale (he was mentally drained - and it would take a few more hours for him to recover from the trauma of his small nightmares - all with Evan in them), Louis discovered that Harford's class size was less than half the average post-secondary scale of 200 students per lecture.

It made sense. There could only be so many wealthy students of a renowned background in Britain alone. Not including him.

In Louis' case, he was gosh darned lucky. Incredibly lucky.

And at the same time he was gosh darned misdirected to this discourteous place.

He praised the Gods, seeing as that deskboy prick did not man the lobby this morning, a Hispanic woman in his place. Louis was glad she glanced at him once, twice, not interested, resuming her work, and he had thrown on Harford's ludicrous uniform while unceremoniously shoving wheat oat Cheerios into his mouth. He felt personal derision towards the uniform code - it completely robbed Louis of what he liked to call his 'uniqueness', his isolation, which seemed to be the one anchor he was grasping onto among gross luxuries as the single poor student.

Still, Louis wanted the uniform to help him blend in, go unnoticed, to save himself effort and time and energy from the ridicule he was going to face. It consisted of a trim, black _suede_ blazer, adorned by charcoal buttons, hidden leather pockets and thread that you couldn't find anywhere in Doncaster. The blazer stunk of imported high end London prim, Harford's school crest a dark blood red. Two lions, facing one another and paws up, were placed inside Her Majesty's crown, and a large rose stood between them.

Stylish at first glance, Louis figures. He refuses to remember how much it cost altogether (no siree). Louis' long-sleeve dress shirt, left pocket again engraved with the crest, was bleach white and blinded his eyes. His pants, night black, matching his maroon-lined silken tie, and Louis had to admit: it fit his legs snug, showing off streamlined, provocative curves of a body he was unusually insecure about. Now he was no cocky arse, but he held pleasure in thinking that Harford's management actually took the care to give their penniless scholarship student equal benefits. He was happy at least, and didn't bother polishing his 100% leather patent shoes.

He looked _good_. 

Louis even snapped a selfie using the wall-length crystal mirror of his dorm, short brown hair swept across his forehead in a messy pixie do, and he made a mental note to send it to his mum and sisters. They would be so jealous, wishing their bodies were shrouded in the classic, chic, unthinkably expensive material.

Shoving the blazer sleeves to his elbows, the last thing he recalled before running (yes, running, how uncivil) to his first lecture on Drama History were the bewildered looks from hordes of rich kids as he noisily skid past, their jewelled bracelets, crisp tucked shirts, heel pumps and haughty faces wondering who dare disrupt their morning struts along lapiz lazuli cobblestones - wondering who the improper little student was.

To hell with them. They can whisper, gossip, emphasize all they want about the peculiar student of short stature who belonged somewhere else. Louis couldn't bring himself to care.

That is, until class time came around.

The lecture hall was a giant miniature _Palais Garnier_ , their professor a slim, gaunt and balding man who spoke in the worst monotone that Louis loathed - even though the majestic tapestry and gold motif and Piazza art that resembled Michelangelo's work compensated a teeny tiny little bit for him. The professor was atrocious, exhibiting vibes that he did not want to be in front of thirty students who looked forward to learning Drama (that was a lie...Louis reminds himself of the wealthy students surrounding him who may have been forced to take the course, lacking total interest in drama itself; he despises them even more for it. And unlike them, he was here for the learning, valued it over everything else).

Why would Harford hire such an incompetent teacher if their programs were of supposed premium, top of the top quality? What the _hell_.

And it wasn't just the latter. Louis saw that the female students paid no attention, instead primping their layers and layers of dyed salon hair, long, painted nails clacking the screen of their smartphones (Apple and Samsung beyond what the eye can see), chatting animatedly with another about their parents' latest business endeavors or their Bali holiday or their Prada bags or their shopping trip to the Champs-Elysées last night via private jet (jesus!). Some draped themselves, pleated black uniform skirts riding high above the knee, around the males; their lips cooed and preened, thick mascara lashes fluttered, and Louis almost bolted at the disgusting display. What a waste of beauty.

The males, on the other hand - they were gorgeous, ranging from broad shoulders to milky skin to honey eyes to sinewy, strong arms, and Louis had felt the unreasonable urge to whine. They were out of his league, untouchable, unattainable, most likely heterosexual, as noble society revered heteronormative arrangements above all.

Good. Louis can't afford any distractions.

His scattered, bitter thoughts were disrupted by an increase in chatter when Professor Eldin left for the loo, and the richies turned to observe him. Watchful glances and snobbish stares (including recurring rolls of their eyes that Louis started to dislike) were transfixed on his seat near the centre back rows, and there was irony in the blatant way they attempted to ignore him.

Louis always made friends - _lots_ of them - without missing a heartbeat. They were drawn to his spunk, his sass, his humour, his kindness, his ability to stand firm against wrongs and speak for the people who otherwise weren't as confident as he was.

He did not want to make friends with this ignorant, narrow, mindless lot and pondered on how damn Eleanor manages. She didn't belong here either, was more suited to mingle with the richies who were open, generous and _nice_. Disappointingly, Louis had yet to meet one.

A girl interrupts Louis at that moment and he jumps, actually looks at who she is. She's petite, black hair combed back into a neat bun, strands framing her tan face. Her brown eyes peer towards him, and Louis is suspicious. She's also pretty, prim, proper, but he doesn't see any traces of glossy nail polish on her hands and her skirt isn't hiked up to Mount Everest heights.

"Who're you?" Louis asks, not bothering to hide the wariness in his voice.

"You're the poor guy, right?" She chirps, and Louis is taken aback, mortified, cerulean eyes widening.

Typical that she forgets to answer his question.

" _Poor guy_? Excuse me? I-"

"It's what everybody's talking about! You're the Doncaster kid, on a scholarship."

She knows he's from Doncaster _on a scholarship_? And why was she fascinated?

"What?! I'm sorry love but I don't remember telling anyone where I was from and that I'm a scholarship student!"

Louis wracks his brains, shock slowing him down, and he-

The deskboy prick. It must be! He's the one who fingers through student files and assigns them their dormitories. He's getting back at Louis for his 'swelling head' comment.

Shoot.

The girl laughs, and Louis finds himself enjoying her bluntness, to his confusion. She sits beside him, expression amused, but he doesn't kick her away. He can tolerate her.

"Are you sure? Well I know how you feel. Us Harford richies know everything about everyone. Why would we let someone like you pass under our noses? And you're the very first poor kid we've ever had who's been admitted to our school!"

Louis blinks at her, pushes his gelled fringe away from his eyes; he doesn't want to be complimented for being poor. For all he knew she was attempting to get a rise out of him, insulting him indirectly.

"At Harford, that's a _great_ thing because-"

Louis' sarcasm is biting. He can't help it. This was so odd. She's unfazed, her smile energetic, and Louis thinks she looked slightly off her rocker.

"Because you're a _hot_ poor kid! You're beautiful! If I didn't know any better I would have assumed you were straight," she whispers joyfully, and Louis is undeniably surprised, warm at her unexpected flattery.

Wait: assumed he was straight?

"My preferences are none of your business."

"Psst. They are. I want to make you feel welcome here - unaffected by them," she nods towards the self-absorbed richies, not noticing or caring that Professor Eldin has resumed his post. Louis himself isn't listening to him anymore, as well.

The beginnings of his corruption were rising.

Actually, no. Louis was the most capable, the most intelligent here. He can research online later, rewrite his notes.

In his peripheral vision, he spots a blonde girl glaring nastily, her smoky green eyes narrowed. She mouths " _poor faggot_ " at him, and Louis' chest tightens like a vice, his lips tugging into a jagged scowl that he meets with resistance. 

He turns away. Burying the hurt he comes across on occasion Louis faces the girl beside him (who mouths "fuck you" back before glancing at Louis ashamedly), one arm resting in his pants pocket, succumbing to this strange person.

"Really? I can take care of myself, thanks." Louis feels a little mean, standoffish towards an absolute rich stranger. She was amiable though, and guilt washes over him.

"I mean, I don't need anyone to keep me safe. S'not like there's monsters that are on the hunt for me."

"But I have to brief you on how things work in Harford's system! Believe me - you're the odd one out. Things are bound to happen to you, and you're someone I feel would not bow down to _anyone_ just like that."

Her tone grows hushed, urgent, and Louis senses that this is of genuine importance, no matter how stupid it may be. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his button nose.

"Harford has a _system_? Of what, hierarchies?"

Louis meant to sound spiteful, hoping the girl would understand where he came from, but he finds her staring intently at him, thin eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"Exactly. If you thought this school was fair, jolly, treated people as they deserve to be treated then you should transfer to Winchester Catholic Academy."

Louis is baffled, leaning closer to her; his awful assumptions of Harford were correct.

"I already thought the opposite since the start, for your information-"

"Mhm." She flicks a stray strand. "I need to give you the ultimate laydown."

Louis settles himself in his spot, nonetheless uneasy.

"Harford University is a top private institution, duh, which is why you probably didn't even know it existed until now if you lived in the province. In areas like Cambridge, Hampshire, _London_ , the school is the spiciest talk, the most sought-after institution in England. It surpasses Oxford by landslides. The school's extremely selective when it comes to incoming undergrads, and they haul in the richest of the rich, grandest of the grand, the people with the most potential. Often, brains don't do it for you. Money does. The multitudes of money are Harford's God. Harford's been nurturing Britain's powerful for centuries." 

Louis nearly chokes on his saliva. " _Centuries?_ " What else was there that he isn't used to?

She continues on, having not acknowledged Louis' staggering disbelief, a smirk robbing her young face.

"Everybody: duchesses, dukes, senators, chancellors, A-list celebrities, geniuses, agents, international queens and kings, CEOs, billionaires, company heirs - all of them have passed through Harford at least once in their lives. Donald Trump studied business management at the school. Prince William attended a seminar on state affairs. Einstein stamped science onto Harford as a part-time professor emeritus. Conrad Hilton-" Louis squeaks at her,"-yep, the founding hotelier of the Hilton Hotels, earned a Harford bachelor's degree, then he went after a masters in enterpreneurship at the Sante Fe University of Arts and Design in America."

Louis is rendered speechless for once, reality punching him square in the jaw. He was walking the halls they walked in, breathing the air they themselves breathed. Quite foolish of him for not researching beforehand. He still didn't care, but it was a mindblowing feat to let this elite information sink inside his head.

"So, I told you why Harford is to Britain what the Taj Mahal is to India. Too much luxury, high in the sky. It rains diamonds everyday, yet they have a dark, dark side: what you're experiencing. People like you scrape the bottom of the barrels. Pick the shortest end of the stick. A poor bimbo who got in to Harford on sheer luck. They'll give you the hardest damn time...make sure an icky poor person doesn't come too close to them."

Her eyes tilt to Louis, sympathy swimming behind her intense gaze, and Louis hates, loathes, detests the rich even more, his gaze burning. 

"The rich can wait until they drown on a sinking luxury cruise liner before they look down on us poor," he snarls under his breath, alluding to _Titanic_ (his favourite) with no regrets; Rose's wealth and her love for poor man Jack brought her death. She was a stupid young rich girl who wanted to change what she couldn't risk changing, but in the sad, sad end, the tragedy of the iceberg was unavoidable. Rose realized the unfairness of everything when she lost him.

"I love your snark, Louis. Thing is, they don't understand how somebody like you, a penniless insect, can work hard enough to be on their level. To them, poor people are an eyesore, a waste of space. _But_ \- if you don't follow the rules, you're better off dead."

Once again Louis couldn't believe what he was hearing. This was incredulous. "There's _rules_ that students will be killed for if they don't follow them?"

She nodded, eyes half-lidded. "Not necessarily killed. It's like being left on the brink of death. And they aren't Harford's rules."

Louis held his breath, skin prickly and perturbed. "What are they, then?"

"Harford University is owned by a multibillion dollar conglomerate, and the school thrives off the donations they receive from them. This parent company has Britain under its hold and they have a thousand solid, melded international roots - over 200 countries. It's so crazy, I know, and the corporate's family is, ultimately, the _wealthiest_ , next to the Queen. Know that the president of the company is Harford's chancellor."

Louis' scholarship letter flashes in his conscience, sweeping past the name that was printed there in metallic gold ink, and he inhales sharply.

"Madame Anne Cox?" What the hell was she reaching towards?

"Yup. People call her by her old surname - when she was still married - and that name is the conglomerate's title. She's addressed with the utmost respect and is like a goddess, really: a stunning face and body at fifty years old! Her personality...appalling, scary, makes you _so pissed_ to be honest, as if you want to slice her dollface open, defame it, ruin her. It's ironic we "respect" her!" she adds, chocolate eyes sparkling; Louis mouths _fifty_ to himself and doesn't intend to be acquainted with Madame Cox anytime soon. Especially if she is the proclaimed bitch she's said to be.

Harford's insanity didn't end here, Louis thinks, malice rotting his judgement. They were bastards. All of them, El and this girl excluded. What matters is they've deemed themselves worthy of his trust. As for the others...they ripped it apart single-handedly. They didn't need to try.

"What's her old surname?"

"Madame Styles."

_Styles._

For some peculiar reason, hearing this certain name stirred Louis; he felt abdominal pangs of negative connotations underneath the title. And Louis doesn't like it. At all. 

"Madame Styles, company president of _Styles Corporation_. Sounds super intimidating, huh? I'm sorry Louis but the horror reaches infinity. No end. Nada. Kaput. Harford University also developed a fearsome reputation a few years ago in addition to its century old emperor status - it's just severely underplayed for obvious image reasons. Harford itself isn't wicked: the student body is. They're ruled over and influenced, and these richies reinforce the rules. Do 'ya know who makes them? Who makes sure the students don't get in their way? Who ensures the student body doesn't go _against_ their rules?"

"'Their'? You're implying that there's some lot of douchebags who think they own everyone here? Who the hell do they think they are?" _Who the fuck were they,_ Louis muses angrily. An eclectic mix of shock and disgust and disbelief still sit in his guts. This is heinous. Fucked up!

The petite girl's serious temperament is shattered by her strange giggle, a cross between a cat's meow and a bird's tweet. "Oh I guess I'm not implying it sweetie, even though I didn't say they were ruled over," she chirps, the sarcasm Louis bathes in glaring right at him. Of course he could detect sarcasm anywhere, even if they were in the form of molecules stuck to invisible air bubbles. Louis was the undisputed expert of sarcastic snark and shade; he almost congratulated her, said 'I like you a lot, love,' except he was too damn infuriated to think logically and reasonably right now.

Before Louis even opens his hostile mouth to rant about the _incredulity_ and the _bullshit_ of all he has heard from this stranger, she clasps his wrist, stares hard at him, her eyes sweeping over his every feature ("Ugh, you're divine," the girl had again gushed minutes ago, thinking he didn't notice her fangirlish, eerie behaviour. He wasn't divine per se, but Louis trained himself to accept positive reinforcement and think positively, immunizing him against his rather hidden, deep insecurity complexes).

"Like I said before, Louis - I know you'll never bow down to people like them, which is why I'm telling you this now. It's not gonna bring you anywhere!"

" _No-_ ," he retorts, disagreeing, because he has to stand up for this stupid school, for what's obviously right and just, however Louis sees that all traces of laidback joking and sarcastic jabs have vanished from her focused expression.

She _is_ grave about this. Went through such trouble to communicate with the poor Doncaster bimbo.

"Who's 'them'?" Louis clarifies, resigned and biting his tongue and more wary than ever, holding back from the urge to shake her firm grip off of his arm.

"1D."

\--

"One Direction. 1D for short."

Eleanor's tablespoon serving of what looks like gourmet pâte and lamb sits on a pure Chinese silverware dish for lunch hour. Compared to Louis' greasy, poorly packed brown bag overflowing with cookies and Lays and a slice of pizza, it was a savoury sight. Her face, ombré brown hair tied into an unkempt bun atop her head, is neutral as she says it, and Louis knows how unpredictable she can be. Like him.

Louis left that petite girl abruptly after she mentioned 1D in the middle of Drama Sciences (he's the smartypants - Louis isn't required to listen to that old bag) and nothing comprised his mind except for Eleanor and the talk they shared.

Louis never caught her name ("Hey! I'll see you soon hot stuff!" she had called to him when he rushed, stricken and breathless and staggered, out of there), but one fact was certain: both her and Eleanor Calder knew who 1D were. So did the whole student body. He did not. And Louis had found out that this titted lot were the crowns of Harford's despicable sadism and the idols of rich worship.

The same people who killed Evan James.

Louis' heart grows erratic, disdainful, and he fights down the anger that constantly boils in his blood. He reminds himself, though, that he's not attending Harford on an £82,000 scholarship for this crap from hell-

"Whoa, babe! You might break your fork and have a goopy brain," Eleanor says matter-of-factly, her ringed index finger and thumb (salmon pink shone under white crystal lighting today) pointing a spoon at him, and Louis snorts.

"I'd choose goopy brains over 1D any day," Louis snaps, aware that his dark expression - unsuitable on him - would scare off even the lightest of souls passing by their table (which he knows don't exist...by _far_ ); the Lincoln Building's overtly extravagant cafeteria five sizes his bedroom (and infused with sickening lavish class that Louis will never get used to) couldn't manage to take his mind off of the wankers. Eleanor tuts, nodding her pretty head and tucks a flyaway strand behind her ear. "Will you? I'm not too sure, Lou," she remarks, sly, a knowing smile on the edge of her lips, and Louis scoffs, fingers pushing up his fringe. "Well _I'm_ sure. And I think I can get to the bottom of this 1D shit without you telling me, for once." 

He probably looked worn. Dejected, his gelled hair beginning to droop, as exhausted as he is, and the herculean efforts Louis made to not draw attention to himself had drained him unexpectedly. Quickly. He wonders how rich people still looked stately and posh even when they reached the end of their strengths. Like Eleanor, whose simple black mascara didn't underplay the elegance of her natural beauty. Louis watches her pearl earrings dangle below her chin, his brows scrunched in deep annoyance, and he realizes that he needs to be alone.

Eleanor was there, ready to talk to him, yes, but Louis' head just ached for solitude. He needed it, so badly, as solid reassurance he _wasn't_ going off the rails - especially after dodging whirlwind poopballs that he had encountered in the past twenty eight hours. They ruined Louis' sanity.

"Gotta go, El. Bathroom break," Louis mutters, leaving his untouched lunch upon the table. Grease oil stains the silk of the tablecovers, and it seems like he's the grease here...tainting the perfect society he had invaded.

Louis avoids crashing into the other luxe cafeteria tables, their inhabitants watching him with a snooty mixture of both confusion and distate, and he does not care, yet he can feel Eleanor's worried hazel eyes on him as he leaves, and Louis wishes that he could explain his distorted thoughts more succinctly to her.

Louis was an iron ore when he wanted to be - unreadable, unless he was willing to give himself away, but he figured it was too early to entrust _all_ of his mental feelings to Eleanor Calder. He had known her for more than thirty hours, and that constituted nothing. Soon, she would be trustworthy, without a single doubt. Just not right now.

Louis stomped, (unusually) silent and angry, towards the first canopy door he saw embezzled by cream trim, and he had no conscious idea as to why he arrived at the foot of a small maroon carpeted staircase that leads to fuck knows where, railings a plain off white. The palpable silence inside the stairwell was quite welcoming, yet its walls were a bland cement colour - and Louis really wonders why - but, if someone looked up, they would be able to catch unexpected rays of orange sunlight pouring through little curlicue slits among the crystal panes; in fact, this place was a breathtaking secret, dust motes swirling within the fresh air that Louis breathed, and the light cast warm shadows upon whoever stumbled by.

He wished his mum was here to see this odd view.

Despite the prettiness above, the paint of the stair itself was flaked here and there, a half-assed job it did not deserve, and a few wine spots - Cognac, even - adorned the rug; he assumes that the staircase witnessed its own share of bastardized fun from the rich for years since its erection. Weirdly enough, compared to its other colossal cousins of majesty on campus, Louis took a personal inclination to this dull stair, completely out of place.

It was an inanimate representation of him. ( _What was the_ deal _with Louis and personification lately? He's probably sick with hay fever, that's what)._

Louis walked to the stair aimlessly, grieving, and he felt a bizarre wave of sympathy for the ugly staircase in front of him crash against his chest. "We're the same, baby. You're not alone anymore," he murmured, inaudible to others except himself, and God knows if someone heard - or saw - him acting out of self-pity.

"Neither am I."

Louis spun around too fast, too quick, that the speed of his turn, charged with adrenaline and edge and surprise, gave him a terrible whiplash. He had ignored the searing pain, though, as soon as his wide gaze landed on the intruder who disrupted his contemplations.

The man chuckled, a low, pensive, warm tone that managed to penetrate Louis' innermost guts, and he couldn't speak. His willpower to do so escaped him, and the fact that the male wasn't clad in Harford's regulation uniform had caused his stomach to flip, inexorable. He kept his breath at bay, uneven and rigid, and Louis refused to move an inch, for the man was _alluring_.

He was young. Louis' age at most, yet rugged, with a smattering of dark facial hair around a strong chin, and chiseled cheekbones that looked as if they were carved meticulously by an artiste's hand were dimpled into an inquiring smirk, his lips full, mysterious, and symbolic of a lovely introvert. His skin, milk coffee, which shone underneath the hazy sunlight like it belonged in an ethereal dimension. His nose, slanted: a perfect bridged plane, and the man's eyes, a cross between espresso and burnt sienna, stared straight at Louis, thick feathery eyelashes fluttering. He concluded that he had dreamt up this unbelievable spectacle. This was a lucid dream. Should Louis reach out to touch the mirage? He would have a very rude awakening, and to prove his point, Louis pinched, nonchalant, his wrist, expecting the male to disappear. 

He didn't.

He remained there, observing Louis with a confused expression upon his proportioned face - the most flawless, aesthetic, _exquisite_ one Louis had ever seen in his whole existence. An ink black eyebrow quirks at him, and Louis was sheepish. He wanted to die. Out of sheer embarrassment. Throw nails into the mix. How the hell did he find Louis here? Where did he come from?

"I...uh-"

"You found my secret place, but I guess it's one of those days where an ant ventures too close to the molehill," the man remarks, his voice a silken, clear tinge, and Louis detects a brooding Yorkshire accent that rolls within his words. It was a lacked effort of conversation. Sounded condescending, even. The lad wore night ashen skinnies, feet clad in nouvel Doc Martens, and his tall, lean figure was obscured by a wonderful leather coat. Louis' throat constricted, heart racing. Of course he was rich.

Still, the way he talks is pure poetry, and Louis is out of his damn proper rational mind to think he is, in fact, infatuated with a pompous prick - a prick from a lavish background Louis had always sworn demise on. He has a faint, distant inkling that this was not to be the last meeting he would have with him, and although his presence felt like one of intimidation Louis was crazy to desire to know more about him. He was an enigma, and Louis was a fly, irrevocably drawn. He is sure that he can't turn back now.

"I was going to leave, actually. I mean, you're welcome to get your hiding area back, and let's just pretend you never saw me," Louis tells him, managing to keep a ridiculous stammer out of his syllables in a blunt, flat tone.

Louis _was_ a lunatic.

He avoids the gorgeous male's piercing gaze, vocal chords pleasurably dry, and with a brief flick of his fringe Louis is about to stalk away, as extreme and painful as it would be to leave his mysterious Adonis behind and have him concluding he was a rude little poor shit, before the young man stops him first. Louis freezes, breath withheld.

"It's not a hiding area. I'd rather call it my personal fortress of solitude. Now a stranger knows." Beautiful dark eyes sweep over Louis' face, unreadable and indifferent, and he brushes past him; Louis' ears pick up the quiet, graceful scuffle the man makes as he ascends the staircase, and as much as Louis is tempted to look behind him and stare (and watch his every fluid movement), he pushes himself, with cruxing difficulty, to walk away.

One last phrase escapes the stranger however, his voice a constant melody, and it will continue to ring inside Louis' vivid memories as the day wears on.

"You'll probably find out who I am soon enough."

He's most likely right. Louis smells the prominent, crystal aroma of _Gucci by Gucci_ when he exits, and it is lingering, longer than eau de parfum often does. It must be him.

And for the first time in a rather short time he has spent at this school so far, Louis suspects he is looking forward to tomorrow, hoping, praying, that a certain male comes back to the stairwell to enchant him all over again.

In other words, Louis was utterly screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god...this was one of the longest introductory chapters I have ever written! Well, I'm SUPER excited to get on with the story and I'm not embarrassed to say that this first look at one of my pairings is a guilty pleasure of mine. I know some of you may find it unappealing, but the plot makes it necessary.
> 
> It will be a slow build towards the main coupling from here on in. And this side coupling will bring angst. So much angst and feels. Beware. x


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